


vascular flush

by flirtygaybrit



Category: Actor RPF, DC Cinematic Universe RPF
Genre: Blow Jobs, Established Relationship, Fluff, Ice Play, M/M, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Skinny Dipping, Temperature Play, or some plot I guess
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-04-10
Updated: 2016-04-10
Packaged: 2018-06-01 11:12:29
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,171
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6516103
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/flirtygaybrit/pseuds/flirtygaybrit
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>He gets the idea watching Ben reach for another bottle from the bucket and shake it, his fingers dripping condensation and ice water onto his bare chest while he takes a long, deep draught from the neck. Henry watches him, then watches the water that’s dripped down, leaving glistening trails on his skin that evaporate quickly in the sun. Ben doesn't seem to have noticed, gaze cast out over the water and his sunglasses pushed up into his hair now that the sun isn't quite so bright, and Henry doesn't bother to hide the smile on his face when Ben glances at him. </p>
<p>“What’s that for?”</p>
<p>Henry maintains eye contact as he takes a mouthful of beer, keeps his lips pressed against the mouth of the bottle, still smiling behind it. “Just watching you.”</p>
            </blockquote>





	vascular flush

Spending a weekend on the coast of Georgia in August is a hot and humid affair.

Henry has been here for just over thirteen hours now, but it’s been more than enough time for him to decide that he firmly prefers Hampton Island when the sun is down. When night finally falls and a breeze begins to blow over the water, it’s not so unbearable. The hordes of mosquitoes still remain, an omnipresent threat buzzing in the background, and the heat lingers in the air for quite some time after the sun sets, but it’s comfortable by the riverside. The water holds the warmth of the sun much longer than the air does, a perk that Ben takes advantage of without hesitation and without clothes on. 

Henry reclines in a comfortable chair on the dock, his hair long since dried and curling over his forehead, and watches Ben float effortlessly in the dark water, slapping away the occasional insect, the water shimmering in the faint light. Ben has been spending more time on location in Atlanta as of late, but he’s been combing the coast for months, Henry knows, scouting the land in search of something — a filming location, probably, for his next directorial project. He’d also known Ben was spending time with his children until now, and yet when Ben had rung with an invitation, a promise of a private weekend for just the two of them, he’d hardly thought twice about saying yes to flying in from London.

“You don't ever get paranoid that somebody’s out there watching?” Henry asks. He’d been more confident in the afternoon, reassured by the fact that any paparazzi would be seen or heard driving down the dirt road long before they’d manage to catch Ben unawares, but the dark has closed in and he’s still not used to being in a place like this, so open and quiet and far away from the rest of the world. At the moment he’s enjoying it, his head tipped back, the stars twinkling and stretching out endlessly in all corners of his peripheral vision, the spectacle of the night sky unaffected by city lights. It’s his favourite part about the countryside, or anywhere that isn't London or Los Angeles or New York. There are different stars in those places, and hardly any of them are quite so beautiful. 

Ben waves away a mosquito, the water rippling around him. “The neighbours are polite. I've been coming here for a long time, you know. Was I worried before? A little. Now?”

After a long pause Henry glances at him, watching as Ben rights himself, treading water, his hair plastered to his head. “Now there's nothing left for them to see?”

“Something like that,” Ben agrees. He swims to the edge of the dock, rests his chin on his arms, and looks up at Henry. “Come on, just for a minute. Cross it off your bucket list. It's warm,” he says, as if it’s the temperature that’ll be the selling factor. Never mind him, naked and unashamed and so blessedly at ease here on his own private property. Warm water, that’s the golden ticket.

“Mm, and what’s in it for me?” Henry asks. He’s been naked in water before, and yet he’s growing more tempted by the second, Ben's confidence infectious and his persuasiveness damnable. 

Ben doesn't bother playing along. He pushes back from the edge, the full length of his body shining and slick as he floats away. “I am,” he says, as if it’s the most obvious thing in the world. That's the selling factor, then, and Ben makes a triumphant sound as Henry slowly climbs to his feet, feigning apprehension with his thumbs hooked under his waistband. 

He gives in at last and leaves his swimming shorts by the chair. Ben’s eyes follow him with open appreciation as he slips carefully into the water, and Henry disappears below the surface, the buzz of mosquitoes and the nighttime wildlife momentarily silenced, the water around him as warm as a bath. It’s nowhere near as clean as one, and he’ll need to shower away the dirt once he gets back inside, but Ben seems to trust the water, and Henry trusts his judgement.

“Not bad, is it?” Ben prompts when Henry resurfaces near his feet. Henry pushes his hair back, blinking water out of his eyes, preparing himself to try to drag Ben under when he hears a rustle overhead. 

“Did you hear that?” he asks, frowning as he glances out over the water. The trees aren't quite close enough to make a sound like that, and the birds have gone quiet for the night. 

“What, that?” Ben replies, waving away another mosquito. “There’s nobody out there. Just the insects, that's all.”

Henry listens hard, but there's no noise over the soft lapping of the water. He rests his chin on Ben’s stomach, eyes still narrowed suspiciously at the darkness around them when he hears it again: another rustle in the sky, the quick flutter of wings. 

Henry would know that sound anywhere. 

“I probably shouldn't be surprised,” he sighs, and pulls Ben under the surface.

 

The heat is rising in distorted waves from the top of Ben’s car by noon the next day, the low drone of smaller insects drowned out by the whining of something louder and more persistent. The UV index takes the fun out of spending too much time on the water without first bathing in sunscreen and insect repellent, and Henry is happy to take time to thoroughly explore the shaded home that Ben calls his own. He’d explore the entirety of the sprawling estate if it were cooler, but the heat and the humidity are enough to sap his energy, and Ben ends up barbecuing in the shade anyway, sweating dark patches into his shirt while Henry lounges nearby.

For a brief moment, the sizzling meat smells like it belongs to another part of the south; but Ben’s skin still tastes like river water, and Texas is as far from Henry’s mind as can be. 

 

The air is still warm and sticky in the evening and Ben wants to return to the dock, so Henry follows behind him with a bucket of ice and beer. They sit on the dock together, sometimes in silence, sometimes not, while the sun begins to turn the clouds a warm red-orange on the horizon. There are topics that they pointedly don't touch on, of course, public scandals being what they are and Ben being the type who needs the peace and quiet and time to reflect on his troubles. When they're not talking, Henry nurses a beer and marvels at the simple fact that Ben has allowed him here at all. It seems like a miracle that Henry’s been allowed to make himself at home for the weekend on Ben's own private estate without feeling somehow as if he's intruded on something that doesn't belong to him. Ben is used to this, the open space and the heat and the whine of insects and the wind in the trees; this is _his_ place, and Henry his guest, and somehow Henry doesn't think it's a mistake that Ben hasn't once mentioned showing him to a guest room. 

He gets the idea watching Ben reach for another bottle from the bucket and shake it, his fingers dripping condensation and ice water onto his bare chest while he takes a long, deep draught from the neck. Henry watches him, then watches the water that's dripped down, leaving glistening trails on his skin that evaporate quickly in the sun. Ben doesn't seem to have noticed, gaze cast out over the water and his sunglasses pushed up into his hair now that the sun isn't quite so bright, and Henry doesn't bother to hide the smile on his face when Ben glances at him. 

“What’s that for?”

Henry maintains eye contact as he takes a mouthful of beer, keeps his lips pressed against the mouth of the bottle, still smiling behind it. “Just watching you.”

Ben’s eyebrows move toward his hairline. “See anything you like?”

Henry makes an obvious show of running his eyes over Ben's body, and when he meets Ben's eye again he knows Ben's interest has been piqued. It doesn't take much to do so when he's in nothing but shorts, Henry knows from experience, but it's the smaller victories that count.

“Maybe,” Henry replies, coy, and takes another mouthful from his bottle. Ben’s rests half-empty against his thigh, and he wets his lips as Henry places his own on the dock beneath his chair, the amusement starting to evaporate and leaving something darker in his eyes, something hungry.

They hardly make it a few feet away from the chairs, the wood rough under Henry's knees as he rocks his hips down against Ben's. Ben has one calf hooked behind his thigh to pull him closer, sunglasses discarded on the lounge chair. Henry kisses him like he's drinking from him, licking the taste of beer from his mouth, their kisses deep and unhurried, as indulgent as the weekend itself.

One of Ben's hands finds its way down the back of Henry's shorts, and Ben squeezes his ass firmly, kneading with a broad palm until Henry moans against his mouth. “I've never fucked on a dock,” he admits, and squeezes again before Henry can say that he hasn't either, his grin hungry and wolfish. 

Henry makes a low noise and ruts against his hip, shoulders and the back of his neck prickling with sweat. He pulls away after a moment, sitting up on his knees while Ben's hand withdraws to pet over his hip, knuckles brushing lightly over the swell of his cock. 

“I try to keep things spontaneous,” Henry replies, breathless. He tries not to hiss as Ben's broad palm covers him, squeezing through the material. 

Ben just flashes a lazy grin, palming slowly over Henry’s cock from root to tip. “‘Spontaneous’ meaning you like to deepthroat your bottle until I have to do something about it?”

“That’s not the strangest fantasy you’ve come up with,” Henry says mildly, unwilling to admit that he'd actually come fairly close to doing just that. His brand of enticement doesn’t usually involve putting random objects in his mouth, but with Ben it seems to work just fine.

Henry shuffles out of reach and leans over, dragging the bucket closer and plunging his hand into the ice while Ben sits up behind him, watching with a curious expression. When he turns back it’s with an ice cube held between his fingers, and Ben’s eyes narrow when he holds it out, pressing it against Ben’s lips. Henry raises a brow, a silent challenge, and after a moment Ben opens his mouth and allows Henry to slip the ice between his lips.

“So, this is what I think,” he says, twisting to pluck another piece of ice from the bucket. “Since you've brought me here to suffer —”

“Oh, this is suffering, is it?” Ben asks around the ice, and Henry presses a finger pointedly to his lips. 

“Don't argue, you're ruining the mood. Can I?” he asks, ice cube held between his thumb and forefinger. A drop of water rolls down his forearm and drips onto Ben’s thigh, and Ben glances down at it, then back up, sucking thoughtfully on his own small chunk of ice. 

Usually this is the part where Henry would be the one thinking it over. Ben hasn't suggested anything new since San Diego, and it's not as if they've really had enough time together to be able to sit down and negotiate introducing a new element the way they usually do; then again, San Diego is still a bit of a sore spot dignity-wise, the indignity being that Henry still hasn't determined whether or not he’d actually enjoyed being just tipsy enough to let Ben give his chest such a thorough display of appreciation. In the rare moments that they do have together, Henry is usually quite happy to tumble into bed and do anything at all, but now that he has Ben alone for a relatively extended period of time, all he can think about is making him squirm. 

“You can do anything you want,” Ben says, as if it should be obvious.

He starts with Ben’s mouth. For the sake of San Diego, he wants to start with Ben’s nipples, but Ben’s mouth is still cool from the ice and Henry wants to be thorough, top to bottom, nothing untouched. 

He draws the ice slowly across Ben’s lips, down the curve of his chin, the midline of his throat. Water drips from his fingers and Henry follows it with his tongue, slow enough that he can feel Ben’s skin warming under his mouth, licking a straight line down to the hollow at the base of his throat while Ben tips his head back and sighs. He smells like smoke and tastes like salt, and he sits with the patience of a saint and allows Henry to trace the melting edge of an ice cube in a slow circle around one of his nipples. Henry follows that too with his tongue, humming in approval at the way Ben shivers when Henry closes his mouth over his nipple and sucks.

“Should’ve thought of this when it was actually hot out,” Ben murmurs. He’s broken out in goosebumps, shivering even though Henry's tongue has warmed his flesh, and he gives a breathy laugh when Henry bites down. “Yeah, I know. Just teasing. Christ, I love your mouth.”

Henry leans up and presses said mouth to Ben’s before reaching for the bucket again; this time he puts the ice in his mouth and splays his fingers over Ben’s side, earning a sharp inhale. Henry chuckles, holds the ice in his mouth until his tongue starts to burn with the cold, and leans in to close his mouth around Ben’s other nipple. 

This one, well, this is revenge for San Diego. 

“Fuck,” Ben growls. He fists a hand in Henry's hair and tugs, pulling so that when he lies back on the dock Henry goes with him, crawling up between his legs and mouthing at his chest, his abdomen, any part of Ben's body that he can reach with his tongue and teeth. Ben groans underneath him, arching up against the pressure of his mouth, and Henry sucks a mark into his skin just below his pectoral, his mouth now hot as a brand on Ben’s skin. 

He uses the ice to trace swirling lines of cold over Ben’s abdomen, lapping at the trails of water left in its wake; when the ice reaches his hips Ben gasps, jerking against his hold, and Henry files the information away for later as he leans down and soothes the chill with his tongue. Ben’s still hard, at least, and he arches eagerly into Henry’s touch, fingers combing through Henry's hair as Henry noses at the soft skin above his groin.

“You’re so beautiful,” Henry mumbles, tugging at Ben’s shorts until he can free his cock. He nuzzles against it for a moment and reaches blindly for the bucket, plunging his hand into the water, ice bumping against his fingers. It seems to take Ben a moment to register the sound, occupied as he is with the distraction of Henry’s mouth on his hip, but his head snaps up when Henry flexes his fingers and the ice rattles again. 

“If you put that shit anywhere near —”

“Shh, I won't,” Henry lies. He licks up the length of Ben's cock and can't quite keep himself from smirking when he takes Ben into his mouth, but he’s pretty sure Ben doesn't notice that either. Luckily, Henry doesn't need to put on much of a performance to distract him now; the simple satisfaction of having the weight of Ben's cock on his tongue is enough to make Henry moan around him, and he can’t seem to stop himself from palming firmly over the hard line of his own cock when he remembers that he's going down on Ben in a wide-open space, where anybody in the world could see them.

He pins down Ben's hips one-handed after a moment and begins to suck him in earnest. His fingers, still submerged in the ice, have started to go from aching to numb, and he pulls his hand out of the bucket as slowly as possible, which proves to be extremely difficult as he attempts to swallow as much of Ben down as he can. When he pulls off, he brushes an icy knuckle up the underside of Ben's cock, and Ben jackknifes with a string of curses, narrowly missing Henry's head with his knee. 

“Stay down,” Henry growls, flattening his palm against Ben's abdomen. Ben hisses at the shock of cold, his skin like fire under Henry's hand, and Henry distracts him again with sucking kisses pressed against the underside of his cock as he glides his hand over Ben’s torso and chest. Ben makes a noise of frustration, seemingly unsure of whether he wants to twist toward Henry’s mouth or away from his hand; the heat of Henry's mouth seems to win out even when Henry rubs the pad of his thumb over Ben’s nipple, his flesh still stiff and sensitive enough that when Henry drags his thumbnail over it Ben’s cock twitches on his tongue.

Henry’s mostly finished his teasing now, and Ben makes a faint sound of disapproval when Henry raises his head and lets Ben's cock slip from between his lips. He uses his dry hand to stroke Ben slowly, fingers dipping once again into the ice, and this time he puts a small chip in his mouth, melting it on his tongue while Ben twists into his touch. 

“Don't you fucking dare,” Ben breathes, but Henry is too invested in the idea to give up now; he leans down and pulls Ben into his mouth again, as deep as he’s able to take him, throat working around his cock as Henry swallows. Above him Ben makes a raw, guttural sound, Henry's name mixed with expletives, the muscles in his thighs jumping under Henry's fingers.

It takes almost no time for Henry’s tongue to warm again, and to his delight the shock of cold seems to have hardly caused Ben’s arousal to diminish at all. Henry pulls off, smug as he meets Ben’s gaze, his glare lessened by the fact that his pupils are wide and his mouth is hanging open. 

“Tell me you're not having fun,” Henry dares him, biting playfully at Ben’s hip. Ben growls quietly, mumbling something unintelligible under his breath, head falling back against the wood with a dull thud. “Didn't catch that. What’d you say?”

“I said I'm gonna come if you do that again,” Ben growls. Belatedly, he tries to shove the bucket away, but Henry is already reaching again into the ice, eager for a challenge. 

He comes with Henry’s mouth around him, shivering despite the humidity, head tossed back to expose the curve of his throat; Henry can't tell whether it’s sweat or water shining on his skin, and when he crawls up to check Ben shoves an unsteady hand down the front of his shorts and jerks him off with short, quick strokes.

“When we get back,” Ben growls against his ear, fist tight around Henry's cock, “I'm gonna fuck you so hard you’ll be limping all the way back to London.”

Henry comes with a low groan, hips stuttering into Ben’s hand, and it’s a miracle that he manages to wait until Ben withdraws his hand and wipes it on the side of his own shorts before he collapses. He nuzzles into the crook of Ben’s neck, running his hands over every bit of exposed skin that he can while Ben rumbles appreciatively beneath him, completely pliant and happy to be touched now that Henry's fingers are warm again.

“We should get up,” Ben muses after a moment, drawing his fingers in lazy circles over Henry's spine. Henry hums in agreement and noses against the curve of his jaw with his eyes closed, listening to the soft sounds of the tide below them and the occasional call of a bird echoing across the water. The air is starting to cool already, and when Henry pushes himself up Ben squints against the setting sun, so unthinkably handsome in the golden light that Henry can't resist leaning down and kissing him again, soft and sweet.

“I mean it, my back’s killing me, let me up,” Ben insists mid-kiss, and Henry can't help but laugh, grinning and pointedly ignoring the tackiness in his shorts as he rolls off and climbs to his feet, a hand held out for assistance. 

“You're an old man, now, Ben. Aches and pains are nothing to be ashamed of.”

“Yeah, well, this wood isn't very fuckin’ soft,” Ben grouses, shooting a suspicious look at Henry’s proffered hand.

Henry crooks his fingers. “Come on, then, we can go inside and I'll rub it for you,” he says with complete sincerity, and pulls Ben to his feet, pecking him on the cheek before setting about gathering the empty bottles. 

 

They watch the sun sink blood-red below the trees from the comfort of the front porch, freshly showered and sharing a still-cold beer between them as the light begins to fade. It's the last sunset they'll have together for a while, the next several weeks promising to be more than hectic for both of them: Ben with his kids, Henry with U.N.C.L.E. premieres and press, and the prospect of parting ways to film again within the next couple of months will be enough to keep them both moving. It’s disheartening, in a way, but it’s not as if they won’t be back together in a few months anyway.

Ben is the first to retreat back into the manse but Henry lingers, leaning against the porch, looking out through the trees; a soft breeze rustles the leaves and blows away the mosquitoes, letting an errant sliver of light shine through here and there in the trees, a final reminder of the sun’s strength. He watches until the light is gone, and at last he straightens up and makes his way back inside. 

In the kitchen, Henry finds Ben slicing bread with the television on low in the background; he toasts sandwiches in a panini press and sits on the couch with his legs stretched out across Henry's lap, chuckling at an old episode of Breaking Bad on Netflix that Henry doesn't even bother pretending to watch. He rubs his fingers slowly over the bone on the inside of Ben's ankle and watches him instead; some days, he thinks that he could spend every day for the rest of his life memorizing the details of Ben's face and it still wouldn't be enough. 

“I'm really glad you brought me here,” Henry says at last. He’s sure he's said it a dozen times since Friday morning, but the sentiment remains, and something in Ben's face tells Henry that his thoughts have moved elsewhere. The weekend has been a more than welcome distraction from their lives, but Ben has more than enough on his plate to deal with, and selfishly, Henry wants to keep his attention for as long as possible. 

Ben cracks a lazy, tired smile and holds out a hand. Henry takes it, squeezing his fingers, thumb rubbing slowly over the backs of Ben’s knuckles, his bare ring finger. 

“Glad you could come,” Ben murmurs. “Gonna miss you when you're gone, Jersey boy.”

Henry smiles softly at him, a thousand and one responses in his mind that don’t seem to fit. In reality, it won't be that long at all before they’ll be reunited again, and with the release of the film only eight months away and the press tour even closer than that, they'll soon be seeing more than enough of each other.

“You know, my flight doesn't leave until mid-afternoon,” Henry says after a moment. He’s determined to hang on to every last minute they have together, and the night is still young. “You still have time to show me.”

Ben makes a thoughtful noise, eyes crinkling in the corners as he flicks off the television. “Right, yeah, I did make you a promise, didn't I? That gives me… how long?”

Henry glances at his watch, warmth curling in his belly at the prospect of turning up in London stiff and aching, the insides of his thighs raw from Ben’s beard. “About… twelve, maybe thirteen hours, if you think you can keep up with me.”

Ben tugs him down between his legs and Henry laughs against his mouth as he pins Ben's arms easily over his head, their fingers tangled together and Ben's stubble rough against Henry’s cheek, crickets singing outside the window while the stars twinkle to life in the sky.

**Author's Note:**

> Note one: I haven't really stated it outright so far, but this and my other existing works can be considered part of the same series. I haven't advertised them as such because I think they all work fine as standalone fics, but they were absolutely written with a particular theme in mind.
> 
> Note one, part B: the San Diego incident is not referring to anything that happened in the previous fics, but to a story I haven't yet posted. it's coming. probably.
> 
> Note two: temperature play, am I right? fun facts: the body's temperature is usually at its highest between 4-6 pm, and cold is great at manipulating local blood flow. with an appropriate and safe application you can really intensify the short-term stimulating effects of cold and create all sorts of interesting reflexive effects. 
> 
> Note two, part B: cold/temperature play is great, but be careful with ice, and don't ever let yourself go past the numb stage. follow the CBAN acronym and you'll be golden.
> 
> Note two, part C: a _vascular flush_ is a therapeutic effect where blood flow is enhanced due to vasoconstriction and vasodilation caused by a contrast application of heat/cold. it's a temperature perception thing. hydrotherapy is super cool.
> 
> now that that's out of the way: big thanks to the twitter crew (especially Ashley, who suggested the idea and who also reads everything I send her without complaint) for their support, to [Shannon](http://elliotalderson.tumblr.com/) for being so wonderfully enthusiastic these last couple of weeks, and to [brodinsons](http://www.archiveofourown.org/users/aeon_entwined) for not blocking me in the middle of the night.


End file.
